


Bitter

by Foegerfeax



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 19:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12754449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foegerfeax/pseuds/Foegerfeax
Summary: Data after Tasha's death.





	Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago.

When Tasha Yar dies, Data is not sad.

 

That would require higher emotional capabilities than he possesses. He attends the service with the other senior officers and observes the signs of grief among the others - red eyes, tight jaws, inverted posture, and himself unaffected - and watches the holographic image of the late Lieutenant Yar, Chief of Security, as she speaks from beyond death; as she stands there, smiling figure free of bitterness. But the body in sickbay was bitter, the way her face seemed ugly without the light of her eyes was bitter, the way her hands refused to form into fists or grasp anything at all was bitter. The way her corpse is superimposed over her smile throughout the service is _bitter_. He finds he does not want to access these memory files, but perhaps he is malfunctioning, because it seems that even as she smiles at him she is falling, falling, stepping towards Animus, lying in sickbay, _falling_ -

 

She addresses him and tells him he is human. Data knows he is not human - he cannot lie. And he cannot die.

 

Another random circuit reroutes to the memory file logging Tasha's death.

 

It has not even been three days, and Data has turned, expecting to address some comment to her, five times. He writes a specific behavior program to ensure he does not call back to tactical with her name. He should not make that sort of mistake.

 

Data is not human. He does not feel and he is not brave and he cannot grieve for her and he cannot grieve selfishly. And he cannot feel regret for the fact that _it never happened_ , not even once, not even when the embarrassment cannot touch her anymore. (Nothing can touch Tasha Yar, she is _gone_.)

 

She is _falling!_ \- the memory overshadows the view screen for a moment and his fingers hesitate for 0.458 seconds before proceeding to their proper task. His operations are still functioning well within establishes parameters, but the bug is proving troublesome.

 

He decides to 'get it out of his system' by succumbing to thoughts of her off duty. He accesses the memory file recording the events of the Tsiolkovsky virus.

 

He closes his eyes and relives it all in perfect clarity: her living face, close to his but not yet touching, fingers entangling in his hair. The feel of her hands, first on his, then on his chest, pushing him down on the bed. Her lips, the electrifying contact they make with his mouth. The smell and taste of her skin. His fumbling responses, shoddy attempts at love that even he could tell were feeble, then the growing confidence as she guided him and showed him what she liked and gave so much to him that his program shorted out for a full second before he collapsed beside her, her breath hot on the side of his face as she gave the last exhausted direction to put his arms around her.

 

Her whispered _I love you_ \- a whispered lie despite its sincerity - the fraudulent promise of a broken and unbowed woman playing at a greater connection she could never achieve.

 

Certainly not with him, but perhaps not with anyone. Though she seemed strong to the point of rigidity, Tasha Yar was damaged. Damaged and bitter and senseless to the very last.

 

And Data could have hated her for it, could have loved her, if only he could _feel_.


End file.
